A Lesson in Redemption
by Skylar Winchester
Summary: What do you do when you find someone who tethers you to the world? When they become the order to your chaos? Do you change for them or do they change for you? Under extraordinary circumstances, two guilty and broken survivors meet and feel what it's like to find hope in the strangest of places.
1. Dark Corners

**A/N: Hey guys. Some of you may know me from my Captain America story 'Apricity', which I have not abandoned by the way. I'm just trying to find my voice again so think of this as an experiment. I love Daredevil and the Punisher (which I unfortunately do not own) and I wanted to get this out of my head so tell me what you think and let me know if I should continue because honestly I would love to. I'd like to thank Amatista and Miky, my really good friends for editing and being awesome in general. Happy New Year and hope 2017 starts off well :)**

She silently wiped down the stretching oak countertop of the nutty bits and milky circles of water, ignoring the raucous bellows of laughter and drunken slurs of Irishmen. She firmly believed that some people were actually born unlucky, or were predestined to a purgatorial existence, such as cleaning up after ungratefuls.

She was obviously included in that lot. She was not supposed to be here in the first place; her usual schedule consisted of 4pm-12am shifts Monday to Thursday, with an occasional odd shift on Saturday, _not_ late Friday nights. No one ever came by the _Wellborne_ on Fridays...except for the Irish mob, who stopped in to enjoy their weekly spoils, as well as plan their surreptitious activities for the rest of the month. It was like someone had died and made them God; like they designated whole days to their pleasure and comfort at the expense of the peace and safety of the public. She didn't have much of a choice, though, as Darren, her boss, graciously upped her pay-grade. Therefore, she owed him. And she _hated_ owing people. In fact she owed many: the university, the hospital, maybe some friends from secondary school back home. It all came down to money in the end. It was the heartbeat of the world, an endless pumping vessel that took and took until your hands were broken and had nothing left to give, except maybe your soul and time.

So she could not emphasize enough: _SHE DID NOT WANT TO BE HERE!_ But…she had to suck it up and proceed with her laborious work, flitting in and out of the kitchen, and only appearing when she had to. She did not speak unless spoken to, no matter how loud and punishing her mind was. 'Breathe,' she told herself, 'they don't matter.' As long as she kept her head down and did nothing to displease the rowdy patrons, all would be well. She just wished Darren possessed the backbone to stand up to these imbeciles. But the one thing she learned when she'd come to the US was that backbone, in many cases, got you killed.

"Excuse me, love. Can we get another round of pints here?" One of the guys called gruffly. She made a confirming sound at the back of her throat and got to work filling 12 sparkling pint glasses to the brim, allowing the white foam to gently fall over the sides in an agonizingly slow trickle. The Irish liked it that way apparently, believing there was a certain art to having a perfectly normal drink that had a magical impact on taste or something. 'Europeans', she scoffed inwardly.

Right now, the bar supplied a long, rectangular dinner table for the crime family as opposed to the twenty-five round tables and accompanying chairs for ordinary folk. The identical leather clad and slick haired men moved from their scattered places around the establishment and took a seat around the table. Matching waistcoats and gun holsters, too; who would have thought? Ironically, her mind then went to the last supper: these twelve guys gathering to support their leader. However, the head of their syndicate was no saint, nor a God-fearing individual, as he claimed to be. Finn Cooley was a born and bred Irishman from Dublin, red hair and beard to match. Despite being graced with a cordial and sunny disposition, the man was manipulative, brutal, and unforgiving. She heard the rumors from other staff members that he'd taken a poor sod's head off for talking ill of his home country. Talk about patriotism; he made Captain America look like Dora the Explorer! While she thought that was a bit of an exaggeration, she would not have been surprised if he possessed such a temper. And he proudly called himself a Catholic.

After the fall of Wilson Fisk, the Irish began to rise from the ashes of the Japanese, Chinese, and Russians. While she commended the good work of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, she gave him a F for his ineffectiveness. Yes, he took down one of the biggest white-collar criminals to emerge in New York City, but the disappointing result of his efforts was now a few paces away from her, watching her like meat as she finished filling the glass with their liquid gold. Way to go, Daredevil, great job. She expertly and carefully gripped three glass in each hand, serving one to each of his lackeys before going for the next batch. Some of the guys complimented her skills, to which she just nodded and returned to the kitchen. She desperately wanted to trade in her uniform, which consisted of black shorts and tight green t-shirt for something baggy. A voice stopped her from that pleasant dream.

"You've always been such a good girl to us, Mars. I just want you to know that the boys and I appreciate it," Finn Cooley said to her as he lounged in his chair, hands clasped over his abdomen. She held back the impulse to sneer at him and gave a simple, polite smile. She did not like that he used her nickname for his own use, as if he knew her. You see, Finn rarely spoke to her before; mostly 'thank yous', 'have a good day, lass,' and even asking her where she was from. He had a way about him that fooled people into thinking he was a casual businessman by the playful, curious glint he held in his eyes, except for the obvious .45 in his suit's jacket pocket. When he came into the restaurant during the week, she always tried her best to ignore how his gaze followed her busy movements as she bustled from table to table, taking orders for her costumers. However, he never made a move on her, nor did any of his men, for that matter. She preferred not to question it, and opted to be grateful for no harassment. In this day and age, there was enough of that to go around in this neighbourhood.

Just as she was about to return to the back, Finn decided to prolong their conversation by leaning forward as if intrigued.

"You know, you could always come to us if you need anything. Anything at all. We'd be happy to...secure a ticket back home...back to Cape Town if you desire it," he offered.

Too good to be true, and a very stupid move, she thought. She still owed people money, and to increase that debt by getting involved with a mafia boss was a death wish. It felt like he was testing her somehow. Well, she was not about to fail and find herself deep in unfathomable waters.

She did not deny that the temptation to go back to South Africa was there. She missed her mother and her brother terribly. Then her dad had suggested (subtly begged) that she could stay in New York with him to complete her studies. She sometimes wondered if she should have stayed home. Maybe that would have been for the best, sparing her months of heartache and worry.

So, instead she answered, "That's very generous of you, Mr. Cooley. But I prefer to work for it. It keeps me honest." It was the truth; it reminded her that life did not come on a silver platter without a price, like what Finn was offering her. He seemed to appreciate her response with an approving nod, and she silently let out a breath she didn't realise that she was holding.

"That's what I like about you. Darren is lucky to have such a good lass like you. You have a good night," he dipped his head slightly, a taste of Irish chivalry, which she gratefully took as her cue to head back.

"Good night, Mr. Cooley," she replied quickly, and pretended to hurry back because Darren called her. The humidity and whiteness of the kitchen was welcoming compared to the darkening edge of the main room. Darren finished placing some dishes in the cupboard with urgent clinks and made his way over to her with his arms crossed.

"Everything good?" He asked eagerly.

She restrained herself from rolling her eyes at his lapdog mannerisms. Was he being serious right now? "Yup. Everything is to their satisfaction," she replied dryly.

Darren sighed at her tone. "Mahree..." he began as if ready to explain something to a child.

"Why do you put up with them? They bully you into taking over the restaurant at the end of every week. What's to stop them from buying it completely? Being here once a week is dangerous enough."

"Would that be such a bad thing? They're very generous to me. They've offered me protection in the past..."

"Forget it." With that, she locked off from any further conversation with her boss. She was silently fuming at how spineless and dishonourable he made himself out to be. She wasn't usually like this; snappy and confronting. She always kept to herself, worked hard and didn't get into trouble. Besides, she was trying to prevent more stress from getting into her life. The doctor said it was bad for her recovery, but avoiding it altogether seemed impossible at this point, with a crap job and mounting debts on her back.

"Are you eating right? Taking your medication and everything?" Darren decided to ask her about the one thing she did not like to discuss. She knew he was trying to ease the tension, but it was to no avail.

"I'm fine," she ended it there, and he acknowledged that he needed to back off.

In her mind, she shoved the blaring sounds and unbearable stench of Hell's Kitchen and replaced it with the image of her childhood home in Cape Town. Her house was by the sea, a constant reminder of the vastness of the ocean beyond. Across her lawn, there were steps that led to the beach below, a place she visited everyday in her youth. She felt an amazing peace in her home country, but she also couldn't resist the call to discover the continents on the other side of the world. She knew herself to be quite naive back then, as she immediately jumped on the bandwagon that America was the best place for a student to be. Her estranged father offered her a place to stay in this sector of New York City, so everything fell into place for her to embark on her adventure.

However, she got a rude awakening when she arrived; the hard realities that life had to offer her here. Ever since her recovery began a few months prior, she always reminded herself to be grateful for what she had…or at least what was left. She suddenly flinched when she heard an obnoxious voice echo past the main room.

"Place smells like dog shit!" It yelled.

She rolled her eyes at their lack of class. She just hoped they would get what they deserved one day: a world of disappointment, and a lovely view from a cell. She sat on a wobbly stool, her hand under her chin in a bored manner. Darren made it clear that staff always had to be ready for anything. The only thing she could do at this point was listen to their upcoming 'noble' toasts to family, and a life of control and luxury.

"Gentlemen, if you'll permit me, a word before we begin. This is a night for celebration. A night to discuss the future of our family...the gratitude we feel for the support of his father..." Peaking through the doorway, the man she knew as Grotto, who was definitely an introvert watched her, sharing her bored and annoyed sentiments. She took some comfort in that others saw these people for who they really were. However, that small feeling of kinship evapourated when Grotto's eyes did a slow take on her form. She crossed her legs tighter and glared at him with disgust. But she still held her tongue; only an hour or two to go, she reminded herself. Stressing out would only take her backwards, instead of forward to that stable place she desperately needed—

It was really strange to see how quickly a conversation at a dinner table could change into a massacre. When she heard the first few gunshots, she thought she was dreaming. The sound of metal hitting flesh was almost muffled, and around the corner she watched in horror as bodies dropped like flies, bloody faces frozen in fear, and some even unrecognisable from the aftermath of bullets. She sobbed as some faces were turned towards her, as if warning her that she would be next. She fell on her side and covered her head as the wood from the tables and counter splintered and broke apart in the air. Glass rained down on her as the bullets destroyed the bar area. She cried out, not because she felt her arms and legs starting to burn, but because she knew she was going to die. She would never see her mother and brother again, or her father, with whom she'd tried to form a relationship…Then she felt a surge of rage; she saw that surviving the past few months meant _nothing_ , and that God—or whoever was in charge of her fate—was going to pull the plug on her, just for kicks.

It took her a moment to realise that the havoc had come to an end. She still held her head in a death grip and continued to shake uncontrollably, as if remaining in fear would keep the gunfire at bay. She dared to look up at the damage, only being met with smoke and debris and the dead. She gulped as she saw numerous henchmen littering the wooden panel floor, crouching low and avoiding the windows in case of another round of fire. While relief should have flooded through her at the reassuring sounds of sirens, she looked down at those who were less fortunate than she. It was too late for them, so basically the rescuers were just on their way to collect.

She felt her legs give way beneath her, sitting with her back to the wall and hugging her knees to her chest. She stared at the broken windows, thinking about yet another thing she'd survived as the blood started to stain her white shirt.

…...

 _Three weeks later_

"Ok. I think we are about done," the nurse named Claire told her softly as she put the scissors down on the table beside her, "they've healed pretty well. I hope not to see you here again, Mahree."

"Thank you," she replied gratefully before hopping off the examination table to get her bag.

Mahree gently ran a finger over her healing gash, and allowed herself a moment of relief that her stitches were removed. Darren, who rightfully decided to lay low for a while, graciously paid for her doctor's visits so she didn't have to worry while finding another job. His hour-long apology over the phone—while she sat shell-shocked on a gurney at Metro- General—had gone in one ear and came out the other. At that point, she couldn't feel anything; still couldn't at this moment in time. She should have been angry at her ex-boss for putting the once respectable establishment in danger; angry at the mob itself for walking all over the town and making enemies. The only thing she felt, though, was fatigue, both mentally and physically. In addition to this, her estranged father was fawning over her, babying her and refusing to let her step a foot outside his house, which meant she hadn't seen her dorm room in days. Her assignments remained neglected in the wake of everything, and her excruciating migraines had started to return.

Now was the first time in weeks that she'd gotten a moment to herself to sort her life out. She had found a quaint little diner in a lighter, friendlier part of town that needed staff. Everyone seemed nice enough and pitied her situation, much to her annoyance, but she was glad for the work nonetheless. The hospital had given her another extension when they heard what had happened, which helped a lot, considering her previous deadline would have dragged her under.

She walked by some newspaper stands and saw the headline of the _New York Bulletin:_ "BREAKTHROUGH IN MOB HIT INVESTIGATION".

Cringing inwardly, she hurried away. While the papers withheld her name from the public as just a 'witness', it did not stop the curious and concerned stares she received while going about her daily activities. The brownish-red scars were still there to remind her of her ordeal, and it was only a matter of time before they put two and two together. 'A female South African student' getting 'caught in the crossfire' wasn't exactly a stretch when they heard her accent and saw her attending classes on campus.

So occupied by the events and strains of the last few weeks, she remained unaware of the curious, dark figure watching her from the shade of an alleyway across the street.

…...

He did not anticipate this kind of complication the night before, his first night in taking down the scum of the godforsaken city people glorified on a daily basis. They did not know what this place was. It was a stinking hole where people stayed to rot and die in their own filth. They preferred to survive in their ignorance, and allow bad things to happen to those who did not deserve it. Those who sat by idly were just as guilty as the active participants. But he would deal with them later; he silently promised himself that. It was time to prioritize, and Friday evening had been a prime chance: the entire crime family was gathering for the first time in months, and not just the smaller packs that usually hunted on the streets for traitors and prospective recruits. So when he'd heard from a source that they were meeting at the _Wellborne_ pub, he couldn't help but feel excited. It was a subtle jitter he felt all over his body, even down to the very fingertip that sat on the trigger as he lay on the rooftop of the building across the street. The light chill in the air was replaced by the warmth of anticipation. Eventually, targets all came into view, lined up so perfectly for him. Must be my lucky day, he chuckled inwardly. There they were, herded together like cattle, and he was a wolf waiting patiently.

Eyes alert and that finger trigger happy, he breathed steadily and began to chant silently, "One batch, two batch, penny and dime." His mantra was his anchor in the tumultuous sea of his mind; a reminder of what he had to do. More appropriately, what he _wanted_ to do. It got him to focus and execute to perfection; no target left untouched. Seeing the blood was no longer an issue, as it became a routine for him, a comfort in knowing that bad people were not going to see another sunrise. If he didn't leave some in his wake, then he would have been alarmed. Yes, it showed how messed up he was, and he knew that without a doubt. But why should he care? At the end of the day, he had nothing left to lose. He'd already lost everything on a sunny day, at a perfectly ordinary carousel at a random spot in the city. He would never understand why they chose that place in particular; there were a million other parks in New York, and he just happened to be at that one. God's sense of humour, no doubt. But this guy wasn't laughing.

So the only option left for him was to unleash hell, put some of the universe back together in his own vision, and if it cost him his soul, so be it. Not like it wasn't already gone.

The men had settled down and sat in their respective seats according to rank. Such a thing did not matter to him, since they were all going to the same special place in hell.

Almost there, he told himself, just a little while longer.

The grisly men started talking, gesturing and toasting and he took a deep breath. This was just the beginning. He pulled the trigger, holding back a smirk at the breaking glass and screams of cowards. The smoke billowed around the establishment, and he finally let go. It was quicker than he thought, and going by the destruction and silence, it was a job well done. So he packed up and never looked back, not at the sons, fathers and husbands he'd put down like rabid dogs. That's all they were: animals. And he was always going to be their hunter.

It wasn't until the next morning when he read the fine print of the newspaper that he saw what he'd left behind. Some civilians were there at the back of the restaurant, one being described as having minor injuries. While he knew that it was next to impossible for him as a marksman to hurt anyone—aside from his targets—that supposedly insignificant statistic bothered him. Minor injuries huh? What were minor injuries exactly? A broken leg? Sprained wrist? Why were they complaining anyway? They were alive, weren't they? But this did not stop him from reading further, giving the piece his full attention away from the car bomb wires he was twisting.

"A 24 year old South African female student has been reported to have been taken to Metro General for treatment of minor injuries. Her identity has been withheld at her request," it read.

His brow furrowed, and he folded the newspaper roughly before throwing it on the floor. He sat there and thought, so quiet that the sound of the fan was like a propeller plane. _24 years old; student; a life ahead of her_ was what he thought. And she had the unfortunate experience of being exposed to _that_.

But she was alive, and that was all that mattered. His feet apparently had a different perspective, though, as he found himself grabbing his jacket and walking out the door. What was it going to accomplish, anyway? He berated himself. Getting emotional about risks was not a part of his job…

At least it didn't take a lot to find out who she was. A talkative, attention seeking laundromat owner across the street was happy to enlighten him, throwing in a useful voucher to "put a smile on that pouty face." He actually felt sorry for the girl, realising that her privacy ultimately depended upon people like this. It must have been good for business, he thought bitterly.

Mahree Swart was her name. Very strange compared to his generic Frank Castle. The laundromat owner told him that she was recovering well (showing him a picture of her), and proactively looking for a new job a few blocks away while her former boss went underground, which brought him back to this moment.

His eyes landed on the slender figure coming out of the diner, following her figure as she made her way past the shops. Her fatigue was evident, not just physically but mentally. The lack of response to trivial things; the lack of excitement; her frequent sighing and such; all things he was too familiar with. She was stiff, her shoulders looked painfully tense, and the lines on her forehead gave the impression that she was fighting someone in her head. Based on appearance, he thought her to be much older than the 24 years the article had reported. Jaded and worn with dark bags under her eyes made her look easily 10 years older than that.

So…this was her. The girl who cheated death; who cheated him.


	2. First Impressions

Finn Cooley's eyes scanned the vast Irish country. He stood on one of his family properties, his favourite one that overlooked the Irish Sea. It was good to be back, even though he was in his homeland for a short time. After the attack he and his men suffered back in Hell's Kitchen, he got on the next flight out to secure all of his accounts, clients and side businesses. And to pay a visit to his mother. The poor woman had worried herself sick so he had her brought to this place where she would calm down. The sea always soothed her; it was a hell of a lot better than his father's 'efforts'.

"Do you remember sailing when you were small?" A sweet voice came up behind him. He smiled fondly and took his mother's hand in his.

"It's cold out here. You should be inside resting," he answered. She was wearing her usual floral dress with a grey, thin shawl around her shoulders. But she did not seem to mind the cold, gusty winds.

"You didn't answer my question, my boy." A darkness descended upon his features at the thought. Sailing should have been a time of joy in his youth. His father would acquire a small sailboat in one of the quaint villages below the cliff for just the two of them. As the naïve child he was, he was ecstatic to spend quality time with him to the exclusion of his overbearing brothers. Things were looking up since the stern, red bearded man had not been angry with him in quite some time. They went out not too far from the shore, just enough to surpass the rockiness of the waves.

"What do you see, boy?" The man asked him. Little Finn did not fully understand the purpose of the question but answered nonetheless.

"I see the village, seagulls flying, the water, the house you want to get for us on the cliff there," he listed, pointing to the light bricked two storey house on the cliff above them. His father nodded, appearing satisfied with the answer. Then he started to maneuver himself around the post of the sail and sat himself beside his son. He placed a firm grip on his shoulder which made the little boy nervous. Has he said something wrong?

"I'm going to ask again. What do you see?" His father asked in a patient and low tone. Little Finn started to panic.

"But...I-I said..." He didn't get a chance to finish because as soon as he knew it, his little head was dunked in the icy grey water. He struggled, his screaming coming out muffled. He tried with all his strength to pull his head free but the man was too strong. He continued to grip the side of the boat for support but his oxygen was dwindling. As soon as he showed signs of getting weaker, his father pulled him back into the boat 'safely'. The poor little boy coughed loudly, expelling the salty water from his lungs and began to shake from the cold. The upper half of his body was soaked and he eagerly wrapped his arms around himself. He looked at his father, who stared at him totally unfazed by his actions.

"Papa, I'm sorry. I don't know what I did wrong," his son was close to tears.

"I asked you what you saw and ignored it," he replied.

"But..."

"Stupid boy! I didn't fuck your mother just to have you get my looks. Your mind, boy! Use your mind!" His voice was louder over the calm lapping of the water. The man composed himself and started to explain.

"Death. It's all around you. You're in a boat, stupid boy. You're surrounded by water where you can drown. Staying in the boat with no supplies can make you starve to death. You'll freeze to death in the night. My point is that you dragged your sorry arse into this boat without asking questions all for the sake of spending time with your dear old Da. Emotion is weakness. And you know what you do with weakness? You drown it. You kill it. One day, you'll thank me for this."

And Finn Cooley was grateful for that valuable lesson. He took his father's advice and smite all his enemies; those relevant and irrelevant. As he got older, he learned the way of the world, people's motivations, their weaknesses, the black market and investment schemes. After his conquests in Dublin, he went for the kill; the United States. The vast country and skyscraped cities called for more money and power. New York was ripe for the taking. After he had heard of the unfortunate coup d'etat of the notorious Wilson Fisk, he could not resist. The Japanese scattered like sewer rats and the Chinese had nothing left to offer. As if the good Lord himself was smiling down upon him, he got a call asking for a meeting. Some descendants of Irish immigrants, some of his friends let him in on their exploits, offering an opportunity he could not refuse. If he could see his old man's face right now. Look what I've become Da. Just like you wanted and I'll cut down all the weeds that get in my way. This was God's purpose for him; he would do his country and family proud. He was a conqueror, a warrior like his Celtic ancestors thousands of years ago. The pure blood of aggression and primal instinct to take what he wanted ran through his veins and made his heart beat with fury. He was in no way evil; he was just a survivor. That was what his father taught him, to survive.

"I remember, Mum. I miss Da," he said, taking her wrinkled and feeble hand in his. As twisted as it sounded, he did miss the man. He had more questions to ask him before he passed away several years ago. So many questions; before he could cut his throat himself rather than waiting for the cancer to take him first.

"You remember what he told you?" She caressed her son's face lovingly, smiling proudly. He was always her favourite. He had the wit, the determination that her other sons did not possess. While they were off doing God knows what, her Finn made something of himself. He became a King. And she guessed that made her a Queen in her own right. He surely treated her as such.

"Yes, Mum. I'm going to find out who did this to me and my men. And when I do, I'll make him beg to see God," he answered, his voice strong and cold. She bent his head towards her and gently kissed his forehead.

"I expect nothing less," she whispered, the sickeningly sweet smile not vanishing from her face. Finn nodded and politely stepped away to make a phone call. He held the device to his ear and the other end picked up on the second ring.

"I need you to find out where that incompetent fuck Darren is hiding about. His job was to secure the place and he has to pay. Put a bounty on his head; 15000 dollars," he ordered.

"Where should we start? He sold the place and I admit, he covered his tracks pretty well," one of his guys replied. A thought occurred to the Irishman and he smiled. A certain, goddamned beautiful South African girl to mind.

"I know someone who might have an idea."

…...

A quintessential American diner sat comfortably between a thrift shop and post office. Yes, the location was unconventional in the commercial district; normally they were supposed to stand alone on a corner, be isolated from the hustle, the humid streets and overwhelming swarms of people. A private lot would have been ideal, especially if it was out of the city and in a friendly neighbourhood. Just because it did not live up to a certain criteria, it did not mean that it lacked character in any way. Like millions of others, it reflected pop culture, hospitality and the American dream. Red leather seats, tacky wallpaper replaced by mirrors, the obligatory jukebox and chess board floors were a part of what Mahree expected from this country. A pleasant cultural display that she was familiar with from her father's pictures at home and movies. It reminded her of a naive period in her life in which she wanted to stay; blissful and ignorant. Owned by a couple married for 30 years, the establishment was beloved by the people of Hell's Kitchen. Tastes from the South, Midwest and California were at your fingertips, along with a friendly environment and good conversation. She liked this place. It was ten times better than the other one. The Wellborne's windows were heavily tinted, its walls green and red which barely let the soft and dull lights of the lamps bounce off. The pub was the ideal place to close a deal and talk quietly behind closed wooden doors. The characters that were attracted to that place, their predators' eyes silently wondering who was next with a deadly childlike curiosity. They dressed in dark colours as if to blend with the walls like a chameleon. Bored, they sipped casually on their scotch and brandy, ignoring the firearms in their jacket pockets as if they were one with their bodies. They were the people who everyone knew about but did not dare to look twice. However, the Rocky Road's diner and bar was a place of light and laughter. The blistering sun from outside was trapped in the room with help from the mirrors and white tiles. You can see the people outside, make up stories or something interesting about them while you waited for your food. You could be reassured by spotting a friend with whom you were meeting up for lunch. There were secrets here, at least from what she could tell. Fact of the matter was, it was new and refreshing and maybe something good would come out of this. Madame Something who had a fortune telling scheme going on insisted that this year would be one of great change. Financially and even romantically; some crazy rambling about Jupiter and Venus going into someone's house? She didn't waste a breath or brain cell on that one.

Rosa and Peter Crawford were great employers. They treated their staff with dignity, honesty and were open to opinions and new ideas, unlike Darren who thought that keeping their traps shut would benefit all. This couple were nice, stern at times but nevertheless got optimum performance and productivity from their workers. Mahree also managed to make a few acquaintances in the short time she had been there. There was Leigh-Ann, a sour and mostly rude girl of a rebellious disposition. She thought that since she gave the public her services, she was allowed to treat them however she saw fit. Stern eyed brunette, curvy and 5 foot tall queen of sarcasm and murder (figuratively hopefully). If she was in a good mood, awesome. If she was in a bad one, be grateful that she was taking time from her emotional turmoil to reach your table. Lovely girl indeed. Then there was Ryan who stood on the south end of the pole. Kind, welcoming (notably chatty) and giving his all to his work despite how humble it was. All in all, she didn't mind being here. Her first day began with pleasantries, from Ryan mostly, and reassurances that she was going to do fine. A part of her wanted to berate him as he took her small smiles and silent acknowledgements as nervousness. She wasn't sure if that was just his personality or if he really knew how she came by this job. He didn't say but she knew she had to snap herself out of it quickly. How else was she going to pick herself back up after... all that stuff that happened? So when he asked if she would like to just have a bite to eat at the diner when it was closing time and chat, she contemplated her response. Her first instinct was to say 'sorry, I have a thing tonight. Maybe another time?' But when that other time would come, she would repeat her last excuse. She thought about herself, the road to recovery so far. No friends, debts, piling school work. Was this what recovery looked like? Just isolation? While she enjoyed being alone better than most people, there was an urge to step out of her comfort zone. There was food involved so where was the harm in that? Plus, Ryan's baby face was sinking in disappointment before her eyes, shoulders slumping in defeat and opening his mouth to brush off his suggestion. What was the worst that could happen? So she beat him to it.

"Sure. Food sounds lekker," she accepted. Ryan titled his head in confusion, ran a hand through his shoulder length hair and gave a breathy laugh. He looked slightly nervous but it could have just been the effects of the city's heat.

"I'm sorry; did you just say 'lekker'?" He asked incredulously. She closed her eyes and chuckled.

"Habit. It's my bad."

"No, no. It's... different. I hope to hear all about your home later?" She nodded and started a new pot of coffee while he smiled awkwardly and brushed past her to serve some people in a booth. Unknown to her, his clear blue eyes stole a few more glances as she got out some more coffee mugs.

Slowly but surely, the tension in her shoulders began to subside. The rhythm of the day was a lot smoother and she found that breathing freely and temporarily putting her worries at the back of her mind were easier. It took her a while to notice that her smiles were growing a fraction wider as the people were kinder and tips better. Not bad for a first day. Whatever planet that was in whoever's house, she gave her thanks.

As midday passed and people's lunch breaks were done, the diner settled into an atmosphere of light chatter and occasional laughter from one couple and a party of three. Then there was someone to the back... alone. The dark clothing stood out from the light streaming through the window. A normal person would stare at the bustling street outside while they waited for someone to serve them. But, no. His head was angled in the opposite direction, towards the mirrors. What was he looking at? Was he looking at anything at all? The cap on his head obscured any way for her to clarify. Some people would find not taking a hat off a bit rude which actually complimented his bulky physique; she was inadvertently creating a profile of the guy in her head. He was by all means, intimidating. Since she didn't see his face (which was probably fixed in a frown or glare), his posture spoke to her. Hunched, closing himself off to the world which made him look extremely anti-social, plus the fact that he was sitting alone and waiting for no one to join him. His hands were clasped around a coffee mug, occasionally swirling the contents around and taking a swig. That must have been disgusting since the coffee was most likely cold and he never asked for a refill. He did not look like he minded though. It seemed that whatever he was thinking about was a lot more important, which brought her to the mirror at which he was staring intently. Did his own reflection mean something to him? Was it a hateful stare? No. A curious one maybe. She must have been studying him for an uncomfortably long time since he suddenly turned his eyes to hers. She immediately looked down, heart beating wildly in embarrassment. Her mind actually apologised for her. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to,' it said. Like it mattered anyway.

Frank Castle would not have referred to himself as a stalker; far from it, actually. To outside eyes he looked like bad news, going by his closed up nature and how his face was painted in black, blue and ugly yellow bruises. But he called it 'keeping an eye on...things'. By things, he meant her. The very meek girl, more of an observer than a talker; a bit like him ironically. She did her work diligently, moving speedily from table to table, from the kitchen back to the tables. However, he made no attempt to call on her for more coffee or otherwise. He simply enjoyed the shitty dregs at the bottom of his mug, occasionally glancing at her reflection in the mirror. While he saw her as clear as day, he wasn't really seeing her. Her mind often drifted, her eyes distracted and unfocused despite her activity. She was worried but her soft and kind demeanour negated that. She was, in a way, otherworldly? Was that the right word? He wanted to slap himself for sounding like a goddamn poet. But it was what he saw. The girl was not quite in the present, like a piece of her was missing.

He heard part of her conversations with others, trying his best not to eavesdrop. Ha! Besides his skill as a marksman, gathering intelligence was something else he learned; listening without being obvious. He picked up on her accent for one thing. It was strange; it was similar to that of the Australian or New Zealand accent, a bit on the harsher side but the harshness had a sweet ring to it. Seeing all these things placed a spectre of doubt in his mind as to the consequences of his crusade for justice. This young, perfectly ordinary girl who minded her own business did not deserve to get mixed up in all this. It sucked, yes. But she was alive right? She seemed to get on with her life, got a new job and everything. Most of his almosts were close calls and did they stop him from doing what he had to. No fucking way. So why was he even here anyway? He had better things to do. He was about to get up and leave until he felt someone watching him at the corner of his eye. She turned away in a flash, but not fast enough. He relaxed further in his seat; looked like they were getting somewhere, despite not starting anything in the first place. He saw her shift uncomfortably, as if debating something. Then, to his surprise, she straightened her back and made her way over to him with a pot of coffee in her hand. This is unexpected, he thought.

"Refill, sir?" She asked, giving him a full display of the accent. Seeing her up close was different to seeing her afar. He never meant for any interaction to take place so he was not sure how to gage his behaviour properly. That was one of the struggles he had to endure with when he returned home; socialising. So he went with a gruff but standard reply,

"Yes. Thank you, ma'am." Her head tilted slightly at the formality. He wondered why. She nodded and filled his cup; thankfully he did not have to survive on dregs anymore. His eyes were drawn to a very bright bracelet that hung on her small wrist. It was beaded in a zig-zag fashion with colours of red, blue, yellow, orange and white. He noted the slight difference in skin tone around that area on her wrist, like she wore it all the time. It had sentimental value for sure and he couldn't shake the feeling like he was intruding. Hell, he was intruding; he was following her around for God's sake. And he still didn't know why. Was he trying to keep her safe? From exactly? Safe from himself? That made no goddamned sense. 'Shut the fuck up Frank,' he silently berated himself, 'you're gonna hurt yourself.'

After that she walked away and he could have sworn he heard a sigh. Relief? The thought made him chuckle; he had a lifetime of making people nervous. To her, he wasn't as bad as she anticipated. Rough around the edges, yes, but no one to worry about. Besides, the likelihood of him showing his face around here again was slim. He was probably passing through anyway.

She got a spray bottle and rag to wipe down the empty tables which happened to be near his own. However, the tension was lesser since she served him earlier. She gave a customer, a middle-aged woman with too much make-up a polite smile as she cleared her table.

"Oh, honey. You've got some nasty scars there," the woman exclaimed, squinting a little too closely at her face. Mahree's hand unconsciously drifted to her forehead. She thought she covered it up properly.

"Do you need something to cover those up? I have some in my bag." She blushed profusely and locked her jaw, restraining herself for scolding the woman for being so rude. Her stupid blue and green eyeshadow, blood red lipstick, fur handbag; she looked like a Revlon trainwreck. What else was in her bag? Face paints for the part-time clown?

"It's not an inconvenience if that's what you're thinking. Jesus said love thy neighbour right?"

Mahree clenched her fist. Maybe a subtle jab wouldn't hurt. In her last establishment, she was not allowed to speak back to a customer. She was not going to repeat her last mistakes. Things were going to be different; she was going to be different. Starting now it seemed. With a displeased look on her face, she opened her mouth to speak but immediately shut it when she heard a voice from behind her.

"Ain't that the truth," the man she served earlier said, sipping his coffee and poorly hid a smile. The woman frowned and turned towards him in her seat.

"Excuse me, sir. But we're having a conversation. I don't see how it's your place to comment," she clipped.

"You wanna talk about place? Tell me, does Mrs. Haroldson across the street know? Shit, I bet she'd love to know your place. Are your regular visits on Tuesdays or Wednesdays? Damn it, I can't remember. When I'm dropping off my dry cleaning, I'll ask her," he answered, almost smugly. Mahree, face hot and burning, turned her head away from them to hide her smile. Wow, was this really happening? It was.

"You fucking stalker! You're lucky I don't call the police." Frank scoffed, sifted through his battered black wallet and dropped a 20 dollar bill on the table. Mahree raised her eyebrows in surprise; coffee was not **that** expensive. Was the rest a tip for her? Quite generous, she thought. Standing to his full height, she immediately saw the woman's ego shrink drastically before her eyes. The man was not joking around at all; he definitely meant business. He silently sauntered up to her and sized her up, not by much though. Honestly, he looked slightly disappointed at the lack of a challenge.

"Why don't you apologise to the nice, hard-working lady and leave her the biggest tip of your life?" He suggested to the shocked woman slowly before turning to Mahree, who just blinked rapidly.

"Ma'am," he said dipping his cap. His old fashioned approach and spectacular display of modernised chivalry earned her a shy but grateful smile. Mahree turned to the woman who hurriedly shoved money at her and sped walked out the door, heels obnoxiously clicking against the floor. Mahree smoothed out the crinkled notes and thought that her eyes needed to be checked. Did she just count 50? Confused, she stuffed the notes in her apron's front pouch and went back to the counter. Things around here were getting interesting.


End file.
